Undead Soldier
by nothingwillsuffice
Summary: She finds him half-dead and bleeding out onto the ground, a bullet in his stomach and nothing in his hands. She hadn't in the least expected what that discovery would bring. Jerza AU. Angst-ish. Complete.


She found him half dead on the cold dirt ground, in the Waar Forest. He was bleeding profusely and surrounded by Walkers; the undead. His camp was hardly a camp.

Luckily, he was bleeding because he had been unfortunate enough to be traveling alone with plenty of supplies. Not because he was bitten- or scratched; that was how they got you.

He was shot and robbed and left for dead. She killed the Walkers, scavenged what she could from the site: a handful of food and some first-aid; a tent. She removed the bullet in his stomach, then patched up the hole with some gauze. He was still unconscious at the end of it, so she hefted him away. He was pretty heavy, about two hundred pounds of muscle. But she was strong too.

She brought him to her campsite. It was properly protected and somewhat isolated, but not permanent. Never permanent.

She finds herself nursing him back to health. He never complains, always does what she asks him to do. He helps her out with the few things he can do, like cooking (which he is way better at than herself, surprisingly).

"Thank you." he says whenever she does him favors, even when she doesn't do anything. He says it at different times, but she has a feeling it is all for the same reason.

She saved his life.

And soon, as his condition improves, he begins helping out more with the workload. Does things a man with a bullet hole in him for only a week and substantial first-aid probably shouldn't be doing.

Eventually, she is able to pack up camp and move on. If he can handle heavy-lifting and running, he can live. He is fully competent, just unlucky. She has planned to part ways with him, solo was best for her anyways.

But he stays.

He feels indebted to her somehow, probably because she had saved his life. She doesn't think it is that much of a deal. In the apocalypse, you do what you can to survive. Sometimes surviving entails taking help from others.

He insists. He follows her even when she tells him to buzz off, and insists that he repay her for saving his life. He decides to protect the life she still has.

So, Erza finds herself with a bodyguard of sorts. It is odd to think of him that way, but that is what he has become. She prefers the term "teammate" though. As if that changes anything.

"We'll set camp here for the night. Tomorrow, we set for the nearest convenience store. See what we can find." she tells him this as she sets down her gun and heavy bag of supplies.

He sets down the tents he's insisted on carrying from his back. They are heavy. Erza wonders how he carries them around for hours on end without complaining or needing a break. Perhaps it helps that he doesn't seem to care to carry a weapon around; maybe that's just the type of person he is.

Without asking for help, hardly even glancing her way, he begins to open the tents and sets them up. It doesn't take long. Then he stands, looks far off into the horizon, his eyes watching the sun slowly descend and bring a nice, scarlet sunset.

"I'll be back." he says. He ventures off into the woods.

Erza has no doubt that he will be back. No matter how hard she has tried, he won't leave her alone. So he will be back.

While he is gone, she decides to make good use of her time and set up a barrier around their campsite. She ties several strands of string between several of the surrounding trees. The strings complete a full circle around their tents. Then she attaches tin and metal things like cans and keys and other small trinkets she had picked up along the way to the strings. If anything touches them, the noise from the metal will wake them up.

She hears leaves crunching under boots sometime later. Strong steps that are ironically light. He is back.

Erza watches as he carefully places an armful of logs and twigs, all of which are flammable, onto the dirt between their tents. With a stone and flint, he lights the wood easily.

With a fire burning, the two of them sit beside it for warmth. They will go to bed in a moment, but it is nice to sit down and relax with their eyes open. They stare at the fire silently.

"Thank you." he says.

"Stop mentioning it." she says back.

It becomes silent again. Erza doesn't mind the silence, it is always quiet these days. It is comfortable too. She holds out her hands to the fire.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. Always worrying about her. Never worrying about himself. Never "I'm hungry."

"No." she says. She doesn't feel like talking. She never feels like talking, not ever since the world went to hell. Or Hell went to the world, rather. There is nothing good to talk about anyways.

"Hm." he says. And it isn't anything particularly important. Nothing noteworthy. He just felt like saying it, she supposes. It is then that Erza realizes, yeah, she doesn't want to talk.

But perhaps _he_ does.

". . . You doing alright?" The first time she has ever asked him anything besides his name. The first time she has cared how he felt since his recovery from the bullet. The first time in a long time that she has just. . . had a conversation.

"I– . . . I'm fine. Thanks."

Erza is at a loss for what to say. What kinds of things has she talked about with her friends? It is shocking to know that she can't remember.

"So. . ."

". . ."

". . ."

Erza truly doesn't know what to say. And not knowing what to say but wanting to say something is annoying. So she gives up. She goes back to staring at the fire. It is dark then, the sun behind the horizon.

"I used to be Jellal Fernandes," he starts quietly, surprising Erza. Erza listens intently. "Now I'm just Jellal. Last names don't matter anymore. Sometimes I feel like no one; everything has changed so much."

He never takes his eyes off the fire. Erza can hear a hollowness in his voice, see an emptiness in his eyes. She is sure he feels lost. Clinging to her after a near death experience seems to make sense now.

"Life was short lived for me. I didn't have much, just me, myself, and I. And the dojo passed down through my family. None of my cousins took lessons anymore, just me. I didn't have much.

"Training kept me occupied, and at peace for the longest. When I wasn't at school, I was training. It was all I can remember doing and enjoying. I didn't have much, didn't do much. But I had what I needed. I had my martial arts."

His story is odd. Not in a suspicious sort of odd, but in a bleak sort of odd. She begins to sympathize for him. Then she decides not to give pity; it will only be ill appreciated.

"Still. . . I was dissatisfied. I wanted something more, but I couldn't tell what. I had no friends, and that didn't bother me. I had little family, impoverished family, and that didn't bother me either. I never had the best things, but I didn't care. I had my martial arts."

Jellal bows his head, taking his eyes off of the fire and resting them on his hands. He stares at them more intensely than the flames.

"I thought I'd be fine with dying. When those men came with their guns and pointed them at me, I thought it would be better. I never lived a life particularly worth living anyway. But when I was shot. . ." he trails off.

Erza watches him silently, intently. Wondering and knowing at the same time. He looks back up.

"But when I was shot, I realized there was so much more I wanted. I still am not sure what, but I know I want to live a life worth living. Even if it's in the middle of the Apocalypse. Even if you're the only other living being I ever see,"

He looks at her then. Erza looks back. "This life I have is new. Thank you."

Erza just nods this time.

And when the moon is at its high, they go to sleep.

* * *

It's scary.

There is blood elbow-deep on his arms, coating them like long, crimson gloves. Chillingly, he seems unbothered by it.

"Is there a stream nearby?" he asks.

". . . No."

She tries to keep her eyes off of him- off of the blood. At least until they find a stream. It isn't the first time she's seen blood, not a chance. And she's seen much more than that. It's just. . .

They were surrounded by walkers. Her gun was too loud, and her sword was heavy in her hands. She hadn't seen the herd coming, hadn't heard them either. She didn't know if Jellal had. He refused to talk since last night. Not that that was any different than usual.

She fought with all her might, but more came. She was tired. With their backs to a corner, Erza reached for her gun. It was loud, but it was all they had as far as she was concerned. When her hand was on the muzzle, she felt another place itself on top.

She saw it was Jellal's callous hand, gently gesturing for her to not use the automatic weapon. She was surprised. She watched as he unloaded the tents from his back. He stood in front of her, put his hands up to his chest in front of him. His legs shoulder-length apart, one foot forward; a ready stance.

Ready for what? Erza found out.

 _Pow_ _!_ Quick as lightning, one of the dead's head practically exploded. It's rotten brain spattered the dry grass, making it moist and brown. Erza's eyes widened.

With his bare hands, Jellal tore into the herd of walkers surrounding them. His quick fist through that one, his flying foot through this one; this one decapitated with just an elbow, that one in three pieces by adding his knees; that one's guts all over the floor, this one's abdomen split down the middle. The worst part was hearing the sickening crunch of every single blow he dealt.

She had never seen him fight before. There was never any need for it. Not until then. Erza could hold her own and he knew she could. And she threatened to beat him if he ever got in her way. Solo was her way.

It became apparent then that she might not have been able to beat him even if she really wanted to.

His fighting style was awfully brutal. Or maybe it was just because he was fighting decomposed bodies that scuffled at a snail's pace and caved in too easily. Either way, he was skilled and dangerous.

Jellal walks beside her silently, like normal. He doesn't seem bothered by her purposely averted eyes, if he even notices at all that she is avoiding looking at him. She has a feeling he does.

They never do find a stream. When they get to the convenience store, it has already been raided. She finds nothing but scraps of plastic and a few pieces of fallen food in every isle but one. She thanks her lucky stars that only dumb guys seemed to have come through here. She gratefully bags the few tampons and napkins there are on the floor.

Jellal wanders off. Then he comes back with what looks like a single, solitary bag of some type of junk food. Erza packs the bag away with a quiet thank you, avoiding his fingers and the blood on them.

He must notice the way she blinks at his crimson-stained hand. He disappears again after she takes the item.

When he returns, his hands are clean.

The two of them travel a little while longer on the road, not really having anywhere to go but out of the city. Jellal has no friends, his family is gone, and Erza has already searched for everyone she knows. They are nowhere in sight.

"So. . . what kind of fighting was that?" Erza asks as they walk, unusually bored of the silence.

"A mixture of things. I was trained in mixed martial arts, a sort of style my family specialized in. It mostly resembles Muy Thai, but it is truly Krav Maga." Jellal says casually, his focus on wrapping his hands. He had picked up a firm, white taping from a pharmacy along the way. It will brace his wrists and ankles when he fights.

"No offense but. . . I see why your cousins stopped training." Erza admits.

"None taken."

They walk in silence a little while longer.

"So how long you been training?" Erza says, genuinely curious, looking at his muscular and lean build; thinking about his skill. She remembers how well he flowed through the motions of whatever the hell he had been doing. His movements were quick, smooth, powerful, and precise; clearly he has some sort of extensive practice. He can't have been training for just a few years.

"My whole life; I was born into training. It's a family tradition that had been going on for ages. I never minded it."

"Who'd you spar with?" Erza kicks a rock.

"My father. He was strong, very skilled. It was brutal and very dangerous training, seeing as there was no one to fight my age or size. My father never held back much either. But I never minded. I still believed our technique was a respectable art; I still do."

Erza just nods. He said it as if that was a casual thing. Tae Kwon Do is normal, Karate is normal, but learning the most deadly martial art in the world as a family tradition? That is most certainly _not_ normal.

The two of them don't talk much the rest of the way. Erza is still a little surprised by the new information of the past day.

It's scary finding out that her bodyguard is practically an assassin.

She wonders had she come across him in perfect health and awareness, would she still be here? Would he have chosen to leave her be? Erza likes to think that he would've. Something tells her he isn't a killer, despite his mastery in Krav _freaking_ Maga.

They settle down when the sky gets dark. Jellal starts to wordlessly train, Erza utterly intrigued by the process. Erza then figures it won't hurt to swing her sword a few times and practices her strike repetitively, trying to polish it into something more precise. After a while, she takes a break, glancing over at her travel partner during, and coincidentally sees Jellal decapitate a wandering zombie with just his knees. Erza decides, then, that it will never be worth it to make an enemy out of Jellal.

* * *

It's been two months; Jellal has been following Erza around like a guard-dog on an invisible leash for about two months. It's been about half a year since the apocalypse started, and Jellal's only fought in her place three other times. Each time was better than the last, each brutality just as gruesome but easier for her to get used to.

Erza eventually tells him about her own family. About her learning the way of the sword, about her father's death when she was just a baby. She tells him about her friends, and how annoying they are even though they are great to have. Jellal still does not seem bothered by having no friends in childhood.

They steadily get closer over time. As they share hauntingly brutal stories, and have each other's back; as their lives are at stake everyday and they pass the time with campfire stories and menial tasks that have become customary. It is the kind of thing that happens when you are stranded with no one else but a single person who kind of understands you. They get close.

That's how Erza ended up kissing him the day before.

The sun was going down and it was cloudy. They had the luck of finding a stream in the woods on an eastern road. They bathed individually, quickly. You never knew when the dead would find you.

When a fire was set up near the river and their tents were set, they sat in front of the fire. Their clothes had been washed in the water. A spare pot Erza had picked up at the beginning of the end held some of the river water in it, and was positioned atop the flames to be boiled and steralized for drinking. Warm, clean water was better than nothing.

Jellal had left his shirt off and let it hang over the fire on a string tied to some sticks. It could dry off without him being too uncomfortable trying to wear it. The fire made sure he stayed warm in the coolness of the night. It was just a little odd, though. . .

Erza had done the exact same thing.

Apparently she wasn't afraid of being topless in front of him. He wondered if she was the same with all guys or if this was just an I-know-you-so-this-is-fine sort of thing. She most certainly wasn't the type to try and seduce anybody. The very thought made him shiver. Not Erza at all.

Erza couldn't care less about Jellal seeing her topless. It was the apocalypse; they were out in the middle of nowhere; alone; constantly. If he had wanted to do something to her, he would've done it a long time ago. That, and the fact that she could clearly see the red blush on his face and the pink on his ears, and he refused to look in her general direction.

Oh yeah, he was pretty adorable. Especially considering he knows over a hundred ways to kill a person with his bare hands.

They didn't sit on opposite sides of the fire anymore. They sat right next to each other, close, looking at one another instead– well, this time not. Jellal glanced at her every once and awhile though, when he thought she wasn't paying attention. He could see her face, cleaned and with minimal scars, alight in the orange wash of the flames; it made her scarlet hair glow. He couldn't help but want to see it.

A warmth different from the one in his face and ears settled in his stomach. He wondered what it was.

"You're adorable." Erza said suddenly, voicing her thoughts.

Jellal was caught off guard. "Wh-What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're a full grown man with the ability to kill a person a million different ways, and yet you're sitting here next to me looking like a bashful schoolgirl." Erza replied frankly, giving Jellal an even stare.

"O-Oh," Jellal didn't know what else to say.

It was silent for a while.

Erza was back to looking into the dancing orange flames. "You're a good guy, Jellal."

"What makes you say that?"

"Any other guy, he'd have already tried to screw me. It's the apocalypse: people don't exactly get arrested for rape or murder anymore. If he somehow found a way to overpower me, he'd have done it with out a second thought.

"But not you; you're different. I guess I got lucky when I saved you."

Jellal smiled, looking into the warm fire as well. "It's just karma. You received a reward equivalent to the integrity of your just action."

"You call forcing you to live in a world like this a 'just action'?" she looked at him as she said this.

"It's not so bad when you have good company." he'd remarked, fully sincere.

That was when she kissed him. It wasn't a heated kiss; it was cold. As if she had done it just for the sake of doing it. He hadn't been very warm about it either. There was just something about actual _love_ in the midst of the apocalypse that seemed laughable; absolutely ludicrous. So neither of them bothered for it.

So why was he craving the feeling of her lips? Why did he want to hold her in his arms; just hold her, and for hours? Why couldn't he keep his mind from wandering into deep and dangerous places full of scarred, tan skin, and scarlet, and _Erza?_

* * *

"You want more, don't you?" Erza speaks knowingly as she touches his face. Few know it, but the first taste of something is usually the most addicting. Erza knows it well.

"Um. . ." Jellal falters, staring at her, wondering just _what_ has gotten into him. How has he gotten so close? Why is he savoring the feel of her fingers tips on his jaw? Why has he been so _enticed_? By the way she walks, by the way she talks, her voice and attitude, her flawless grace, words that cut like knives and odd kindness, _sensational_ scarlet hair, and her scent of flowers and blood and gore and silver. . .

"It's fine," she says, pressing her palm to his cheek, "it's natural," Her tone isn't exactly condescending, but it holds a certain sharp bitterness towards the subject that Jellal is unsure of. Her eyes flit across various parts of his face in a moment of silence before settling on his eyes again. "All humans are the same, though the male population is typically more restless; if I could blame you, I would."

Jellal doesn't respond– he doesn't know what to respond with. How do you respond to someone so brazen? "Why can't you?" He bites out after. He is male, after all. Isn't that what she is hinting at?

"You're too cute," she states as she brings her face closer, flitting her eyes to is lips for only a second, "so I guess half of this is my fault."

Jellal doesn't get a chance to comment on that. Erza has her cold lips pressed against his the moment she's stopped talking. He snaps out of his surprise quickly enough to respond to her, her lips knowing and his own very confused. He follows her lead, shifts and fits his lips against hers in accordance to how she moves them. It's odd for him, but he enjoys every second of it; of his connection with the woman across from him. It fills something in his chest he hadn't known was hollow.

Too soon, Erza pulls out of the kiss. Jellal takes a moment to realize his eyes were closed, and opens them. He stares at her and she stares back, and he suddenly feels lost again. That hole he's just filled is already steadily emptying.

"Satisfied?" Erza asks him, noting that _she_ _i_ _sn't_. She can see the gears whirring in Jellal's head, and can't help but think about how utterly adorable he is; how adorable he must have been his entire life. It makes her feel unusually lusting, and she hasn't felt particularly flustered since day one: the day Simon had been taken from her. The day she felt like she was going to go _mad_ because suddenly fiction had become truth and death was much, much more real and as common as tripping over one's own feet, and right in front of her and _walking_ and gnashing its teeth with _promise_.

Erza actually hadn't felt this at peace– this _reassured_ – until she had inadvertently picked up a bodyguard- which, in its own right, should not have felt so ironic.

". . . No, I don't think so." Jellal's visage shows his true indecision of whether or not he's had enough. The kiss was almost magical, better than the last, but he still feels something left unfulfilled.

"Is that so?" Erza questions, her eyes glazed over with that same lust now. She leans into him easily, causing their chests to meet. Jellal's cheeks turn pink this time. Erza smiles, almost giggles.

He's so innocent.

"What do you want, then?"

The question is unnecessarily difficult for Jellal to answer.

"I– I just . . ." Jellal struggles with working his tongue as Erza brings herself closer still– somehow– somehow managing to bring her full body flush against his. Jellal has never had an experience like this before; what's a man supposed to do when a woman offers herself like this?

Erza doesn't rush him. She honestly doesn't care _what_ he says, as long as she has the comfort of knowing he will remain as cute as the day she'd met him. She's discovered by now that her lust isn't exactly sensual,it's a sensation she's only ever felt with Simon. She never thought she'd ever have the ability to feel it again.

"I just . . ." Jellal sighs, taking his weight off of his hands. He puts the appendages in front of himself. Hesitantly, slowly, he brings his arms up and gently rests his hands on the small of Erza's back.

Erza is ready. Too ready. So ready, it scares the shit out of her. She has gotten lost in the unique innocence of this full grown man in the middle of the apocalypse, the man who is denying an offer any other man will take. Innocent men don't exist, Erza knows–- most certainly not in the middle of the apocalypse- not when raping, pillaging, and patriarchy are the social norm. But she can't shake the feeling she's getting, can't stop her eyes from adoring the small dimples in his cheeks, can't stop her fingers from wandering, can't stop the way her heart convulses when he speaks next.

". . . I just want to hold you . . ."

Erza doesn't want to cry. She doesn't want to cry for Simon, or for her missing parents, or for her missing friends. She doesn't want to cry out in frustration at the shitty apocalypse or cry out in desperate _relief_ for the savior- the innocent, adorable, strong little savior- she's found in a pit of misery. So she doesn't. But she lets Jellal near squeeze her to death and she conceals her eyes wide with shock behind his shoulder. She hugs him back after a long moment, sitting in his lap comfortably with her head against his chest, and breathes in his scent of blood and masculinity, some smell of deep ember and rain. They stayed like that for a while, Erza nodding off and almost accomplishing sleep when Jellal sighed.

"Are you okay with this?" he asks gingerly, still unsure. He still has his nose burrowed in her hair, smelling traces of anything and everything that had ever touched it.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she mumbles into his shirt, wanting to keep his warmth on her face.

"I guess I was under the impression that you're not the cuddling kind. You're not exactly a kitten, more like a tiger of some sort."

Erza is actually rather flattered. She laughs a bit. "Really? But even tigers have mates and cubs and families."

"Not very close ones." Jellal points out.

"True."

Erza wonders how they have gotten into such calm, comfortable, _normal_ conversation. No talk about accidentally cutting a guy's ear clean off once, or mistakenly breaking your own shin while trying to perform the Flying Knee Technique you edited yourself. Just animals and friends and family and pets and food and life without pain.

Perhaps it is the shocking innocence in Jellal that makes it so; he is innocent enough to actually _love_ _._ Erza isn't going to lie, she's no longer considered an innocent. She'd given up on trying to retain some semblance of the thing ever since Simon died. Erza can only hope that Jellal has enough innocence for the both of them.

She'd like to love again.


End file.
